


I Only Crawl When I Hit the Ground

by Fudgyokra



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [11]
Category: Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, M/M, Revenge, Villainous Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23139139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: “‘M’fine,” he slurred, shaking his head to clear what Slade guessed must be a brutal case of double vision. “Dun need y’r help.”“Kid, without me, you’d be dead right now.”
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1154129
Comments: 20
Kudos: 119





	I Only Crawl When I Hit the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a direct sequel to the previous prompt in the series!
> 
> Anon asked: SlaDick for the “villainous rescue” for the bad things happen bingo? And since it’s Slade, he’ll obviously extract some compensation from Dick, willing or not, and whether it’s a rescue or kidnapping quickly becomes debatable…
> 
> Prompt: Villainous Rescue
> 
> Title from Royal Blood’s “I Only Lie When I Love You.”

Even from far away, Nightwing’s case looked dire. Slade was not foolish enough to think it would be any prettier up close, but temptation thrummed just beneath the surface of his skin, pulling him toward the fight until he was perched atop a closer vantage point. He wouldn’t interfere yet. No matter how the odds were stacked against Grayson, it was admittedly impressive to watch him twist and lunge and kick like they weren’t. No fear showed on his face, whether he realized the disadvantage or not.

There were several assailants, most of them surprisingly competent, meaning they couldn’t be run-of-the-mill crooks. A troupe sent by an adversary of a more serious persuasion, then. Interesting. Slade knew Nightwing had his enemies, but this battle was getting dirty far more quickly than it needed to if their intent was just to nab him and run back for a prize from the boss.

Mistakes were easy to make in these sorts of situations. Nightwing only made one, and it had nothing to do with his skills as a martial artist.

When he got thrown down, he rolled with the movement as gracefully as ever, shifting his weight onto his shoulders and drawing his legs toward his chest with an elegant curve to his spine. The perfect angle to gain momentum for kicking up at the man who had felled him. All that weight behind two solid boots sent the guy sprawling backward on the rooftop, where he stumbled exactly one time too many to prevent him from toppling right over the ledge.

Nightwing’s mistake was going after him instead of letting him _die._ Naturally, the Bat’s underling would act like he was breastfed morality from birth, even if Slade knew better. A grin stretched across his face as he reveled in the delicious notes of panic on Grayson’s.

The grapple-gun on his person was used as a lasso. Although it caught the falling man around his ankle, securely dangling him above the pavement where he would have otherwise met his end, Slade could hear the gruesome pop of his knee dislocating all the way from here. Hanging from that couldn’t have been fun. The man’s screams suggested it wasn’t, but Slade would count him lucky that it wasn’t his hip.

Grayson peered over the edge a second too long and was suddenly acquainted with the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his skull.

Slade saw the twitch of the assailant’s trigger finger and acted on instinct. Nightwing wouldn’t have been able to save himself in time while he was busy angsting over poor ingenuity, so he ought to be thankful the bullet that whizzed through the night air wasn’t from the weapon he expected.

A gasp tore from his throat when he whipped around to examine the now-splattered brains of the body laying slack behind him. Not a second later, the whites of the domino mask were trained right on Slade’s face, catching him in his hiding spot where he crouched with his gun still smoking. He waved. Grayson’s mouth twisted into a mean snarl.

It wasn’t that Slade didn’t seethe last remaining thug waddle, half-conscious, toward his mark, but he liked how Grayson was so caught up in his disdain for Slade’s handiwork that he didn’t even notice another party intruding on their moment until he was struck in the back of the head. Better than a bullet, at least.

Satisfied with the nasty tumble he took, if only to his hands and knees, Slade lifted his gun once more and offered another bullet’s worth of tragically unappreciated assistance.

When it was all done, he hopped over, landing with a heavy thud next to the hero’s bowed head. Grayson didn’t look up, but he did sway when he lifted a hand to push his bangs out of his face. “‘M’fine,” he slurred, shaking his head to clear what Slade guessed must be a brutal case of double vision. “Dun need y’r help.”

“Kid, without me, you’d be dead right now.” Slade reached down, threaded his gloved fingers through tousled, dark hair, and admired the soft moan the brat gave in his delirium. He crouched, touch turning rough as he yanked Grayson’s head up by the roots. That earned another sound, this one no less moaned but certainly louder and more disgruntled. “And you know what? You might just wish you were, after I’m through with you.”

* * *

This was supposed to be payback for what happened in the warehouse. His threat was _supposed_ to hold merit. Instead, when Grayson woke up from his brief bout of unconsciousness tied to Slade’s dining room table, being violently fingered open the same way he’d done to him, the first thing out of his mouth was another fucking moan.

“You with me?” Slade asked, vaguely annoyed that Grayson hadn’t so much as tensed. Must have been quite a blow to the head. He probably shouldn’t have let him fall asleep on the trip over, but it wasn’t his job to keep one of Batman’s brood from slipping into a coma, thank you very much.

He worked diligent fingers pointedly over his prostate, and Grayson arched, whining out a wavering, “ _Nooo,_ ” that was clearly not an answer to the question.

“Jesus,” Slade said, scowling. “You’re something else. This is a punishment.” Still, he put his entire weight into slamming his fingers back in, hitting the same spot with relentless accuracy as if he didn’t care one way or another how his captive answered.

Predictably, Grayson wailed, hips shooting forward with nowhere to go but into the edge of the table. Less predictably, he keened, as if he had been teetering on the edge that entire fight and now sought release. His voice was tight when he cried, “I deserve it! _Please,_ please, please…”

Oh. Well, that was not quite what Slade expected.

His mouth curled into a smirk when he leaned over the boy’s splayed-out body, armored chest layered against bare back. “I knew you were screwed up after our last meeting, but I had no idea it was this bad.”

Grayson made a hiccup-y little noise, grinding his hips back against the fingers inside of him. He may not have been aware of how long Slade had been at this, but he seemed plenty aware of the meeting he was talking about, going by his pinched expression.

Slade hummed. “So, you _want_ to be hurt?” The resulting pause was infinitesimal, but ended with a nod. “You think you deserve it?” Again, Grayson nodded, head bobbing faster this time, almost frantic. Slade forced a fourth finger into him just to hear him whimper. “This isn’t going to change what you did,” he said, pleased by the fact. “I know it eats you up, but it’s the truth.”

The day that particular incident happened, Nightwing had done all the talking since Slade couldn’t. Now, though, he found he had a lot to say. Words once jammed behind his teeth hissed out of him in an unstoppable frenzy, right against the shell of Grayson’s ear while he writhed and panted and gasped beneath him.

“You can run around and play innocent all you’d like, but deep down you want to break me as badly as I want to break you. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I will do a _much_ better job.”

The ugly sob that twisted its way out of Grayson’s mouth had nothing to do with the mark Slade bit into his shoulder. He pulled away, admiring it for a moment.

Grayson tensed all over, hips canting upward, fingers curling against his palms where his wrists were bound. His breaths were shortening, each one punched out of him by the brutal rocking motions of his violation. When the edge approached, Slade withdrew his fingers, listening to the pathetic, drawn-out whine with no small measure of glee.

Unable to finish, Grayson had taken to humping uselessly at the table, the smooth wood giving him no pleasing friction to work with. For a long time, he trembled, looking unbearably pretty in his state of dissatisfaction.

Finally, Slade rounded the table, kneeling just to snatch Grayson’s head by the hair again, forcing him to look at his face. “You want a punishment?” Grayson’s desperate, misty-eyed nodding was too amusing.

Slade pulled down on his zipper, fiddling with the catches to disarm everything as he went. “Good,” he said, voice dark, “because I have no intention of letting you go tonight.”


End file.
